Scars And Skin Grafting
by Cozzybob
Summary: During the war, there was Quatre. After the war, there was Duo.  3x2


**Scars And Skin Grafting**

Rated: T

Pair: 3x2 at the end (with 4+3 and 1+2 implied at some point or another).

Warning: stream-of-consciousness, slashy kissing, strong language, angst.

Note: For GW500's "Your Hand" challenge.

Summary: During the war, there was Quatre. After the war, there was Duo.

.

* * *

.

After, after the amnesia and the crying and Dorothy's coil (and running out of bullets, always out of bullets), Quatre salutes a glass of non-alcoholic champagne to me in the hospital bed on Howard's ship, and he says, "To peace." And he looks at me, and I _know_ what he wants, but I won't give it to him

won't give it to him anymore

because his hands shake mine like a

goodbye,

and every time he looks at me with the sun flashing from a certain angle, Zero's beam sabre slashes through the twisted shrapnel of my mind,

(I'm going to destroy everything until there's nothing left in the whole fucking universe, Heero!)

and I'm not _dead_ anymore. Catherine's wings enfold around a stranger and Duo gapes on in horror. _Don't you know who I am?_ Death came for me, but I was afraid, and so he

left

left me

left me be.

Never knew who I was in the first place, but _you're the reason I don't want to die anymore_, and it's not fair, because I hate him, I hate Quatre when he shakes my hand in a firm CEO grip, and he says,

"I'll see you around, Trowa,"

(Don't come any closer, Trowa!)

and he walks away, and I still don't know why there are tears floating in the space before me. I don't even like him,

but (I can feel him crying)

but he ruined the last little bit of me and made me into something else, something I don't understand. I don't want to die anymore, and it's not fair.

_You're not the nice guy I thought you were,_ and _isn't it said when a woman can't cry?_ Sad, but ultimately pointless. Dorothy had plenty of tears to shed, once I gave her a mirror.

So he walks away with his stupid purple vest slung over his shoulder, pink shirt gleaming in the sun, and I'm on my knees and holding I'm my head and I don't. want. to die.

"What's your name?"

_Tr-not sure._

"Where are you from?"

_Burn scars._

"What do you do?"

_Terrorist._

"Who were your parents?"

_Mercenaries._

I met him in the rain. He was

dancing

and twirling like a damn ballerina

and whistling some annoying song about coconuts. Skipping down the sidewalk without an umbrella, braid clinging to his back, a snake drowning in the storm. Soaked from head to toe,

water beaded on his lashes, spilling tears every time he blinked

but he didn't blink often. Bottle of rum in his left fist, half gone. Slight sway to his hips, muscles loose and tempting.

He didn't/doesn't see me until I step into his path, arms folded (hugging myself, insecure, nervous, ugly).

He wobbles, his whistling winding down like a record player experiencing power loss, that slow depressing halt from energetic bounce to lazy shuffle. He gestures vaguely with the rum and smirks at me.

"Beautiful day."

I nod.

He shrugs, blinks, and the rain-induced tears fall again. Unscrews the cap off the rum and takes a quick drink. Leaves the cap off, letting the rain slide inside and dilute his shortcut to happiness.

Shrugs, shoulders by,

"Well, be seeing you,"

muttering on about hound dogs this time (You ain't nothin' but a-).

"Wait," and I reach out a hand to stop him. On his shoulder, he whirls, looks ready to break my arm and then he stills, Death poised to listen. The careless joy is still there, and I want to punch him until he stops lying to me.

I ask, "How are you?"

Lame and silent and stilted with things like post-war and soldiers who promise to see each other when they get back

get back home

but they never do (probably because they never get back home).

He laughs, and it's the What A Stupid Fuck laugh that makes me wince until he's apologetic. "Yeah. Ask again when I'm sober."

And pacific ocean depths say, _I'll never be sober again. I'll die a worthless fucking alcoholic, and then you'll never know._

Nodding. The soldier acknowledging he'll never be home again.

_So make a new home._ I gesture to the rum, questioning. "Care to share a drink?"

Duo passes it, and I take a long, slow swallow. It burns like acid, scouring away every scar from every scream that ever made me bleed inside.

"Thanks."

"Sure."

The wind shifts, turns to the West.

Rum crashes to the cement with an amber shower and glass shards, lips colliding into a car crash / train crash / plane crash. Two atom bombs fucking an entire nation to radiation poisoning and dead babies. Duo kisses like he wants to crawl inside my mouth and hide, and I'm holding onto so tightly his jacket rips underneath my fingers.

Moans and sobs and whimpers and _I hate this fucking world and everything in it._ Glass crunching under our feet, shoves me away, stares. Panting. Dragging the heel his calloused palm across chapped lips, rubbing my spit away.

The first thing out of my mouth,

"What happened to Heero?"

He punches me, bull ramming into my face, and I see red. Punch him back, he goes down.

This is familiar territory.

Standing over his curled body on the sidewalk, rain pounding into our bones, looking superior (feel inferior), and all we need is an OZ cell, lackeys, with some decent cuffs, a pressed uniform, and Une drooling on polished shoes. (I believe we understand each other, Mr. Barton.)

He spits a bloody wad on my scuffed, worn shoes, and laughs. Wobbles to his knees, claws to his feet. Rage in his eyes, respect.

"You still punch like fuckin' Rocky," he slurs, and though I don't understand the reference, it still causes a smile to twitch on my face. Tentative, unsure.

I ask again, "What happened to Heero?" Quieter now.

The rain is an endless beating of ten thousand drums in my ear, and I almost miss his answering whisper as he looks away, to the shattered rum on the sidewalk behind him. He scuffs his boot on the cement, and sighs longingly. In the rain, it looks like he's crying again.

"Stupid fuck left," Duo says. "Dunno where he went. Don't fucking care."

Hold my breath.

He asks, "What about Quatre?"

Let it out. Shrug.

Duo nods, claps me on the back (buddy/pal/friend/comrade/brother). Takes my hand, and we walk toward the North Star.

"Forget it," he says.

Forgotten.

Holding tighter now. "Duo, your hand is cold."

I'm not sure why I need to say this, and icy fingers twitch in mine, like he aches to pull away-Casper pulling away from that girl in the movie, _Casper, shut the window, it's cold._

I hold on, keep him there. Not letting go.

"Yours is too," Duo shrugs it off, "It's raining."

It's raining.

I nod, and then we kiss again. Lips softer, and this time I notice the stubble on his chin. His breath smells like rum and cigarettes. I keep my eyes open this time and his are open too. Staring.

A man barges between us, and we're ripped apart. Mutters on about fags and rainbows and the end of a decent world.

Duo snorts, and shakes his head. Takes my hand. It's still cold, but if we rub our fingers together, the friction might warm them up.

"C'mon, Tro. Let's get the hell out of this damn weather, yeah?"

"What's your name?"

_Trowa Barton._

"Where are you from?"

_Here._

"What do you do?"

_Whatever I want._

"Who were your parents?"

_Me, myself, and I._

-Fini.


End file.
